Umbra Venandi (Shadow Hunter)
by The Lady Frost
Summary: All his life, the shadows have called his name. He hunts the things that hide within them. He wants so badly to feel anything but the horror that clings to every breath. She's the only thing that binds him to hope. And she's there to catch a killer...the bad news? Neither of them know if that killer is him. (AU style Claire and Leon, Cleon -mystery, murder.) (On Hold)
1. Prologue

**Prologue:**

 _Umbra Venandi_

 _(Shadow Hunter)_

* * *

The **dream** is always the same.

The **nightmare**. The need. The anger.

It always **bleeds**. It always **lies**. It always tries to remind him he was and never would be.. **.normal.**

He tries to fight it. But he can't fight it. He can't even pretend to fight it. He just...feels it and dies with it and tries to deny it..but the mind is a master of making us the victim of our own pain.

With a putrid touch, the darkness clings to him. Tendrils, tendrils, curls of smoky death and stealing pain. He watches it creep. He watches it slide over the cobblestones and slither toward him like snakes made of oil. It touches his loafers and slips fingers up his calve.

His whole life, he's felt it there, waiting to claim him. There's no way to stop it. There's no way to slow it down. It cleaves and clings at once. It loops around his leg and over his groin. It sucks at his dick like a whore. It leeches into his guts and finds his spine and snaps it until he screams and collapses, a victim of its swirling touch.

His body lets it rise above him, a succubus, a Lilith, a liar. It fucks him while he dies, soaked in darkness and blood. It steals his soul from his open mouth. He watches the world turn red and black with rot and blood. He can only watch it rise. Something inside of him feels defeated. It's not really fear; it's more like numb acceptance. He's so tired. He's fought so long. He just wants to rest now. Just rest and give in.

There's a weeping in the distance, so soft that at first, he thinks it's merely the wind through the tree tops. But it comes again, louder this time, closer. The weeping is full of rage, of fear, of despair. And he knows that voice. He knows it.

It calls to him, crying into his blood, "Get up...get up...find me. FIND ME."

In the sucking black, he finally finds his voice, "Get the fuck off me."

The darkness quivers with denied rage.

He shakes, shakes his body, shakes his soul and the darkness recedes, hissing. It doesn't want to be denied its ultimate prize. The weeping is louder now almost as if it's just out of his sight.

He begins to run even as part of him fears he will be too late. The darkness follows, close, closer, just at his heels. He feels trapped between fear and courage. Which will save him? Which will save them both?

He stops in the middle of the street and the darkness halts, pulsing.

He opens his mouth and screams out a **name**.

The darkness echoes in hissing whispers.

The weeping fills his **ears**.

His hands are filled with blood.

And the horror of knowing he's too late.


	2. Day One: Chapter One

**Day One**

* * *

 _"Hello my son, the darkness said and I did naught but stare._

 _I've brought the gift of death to you, so nurture it with care."_

* * *

His eyes popped open. But he didn't rise sweating. It took a lot more then a dream about darkness to bring the sweating on these days. He was pretty sure that he rarely even yelled out in his sleep anymore. Of course, since he slept the majority of his nights away alone, it was also hard to ask anyone.

He slid to the edge of the bed, trailing the softness of the Egyptian cotton sheet with him, the only barrier between himself and the coolness of the bedroom. He ran his hands through his hair slowly, pushing the thickness of it off his forehead and out of his eyes. It was tangled, it was just a little damp but then he'd fallen face first down on the bed right after he'd showered the night before.

He reached onto the cherry wood nightstand beside the bed, fumbling in the twilit dark for his cigarettes and lighter. He wasn't sure when he'd taken up smoking, it seemed like he'd been doing it since birth. The thumb wheel hissed as he spun it, the tiny orange flame casting the smallest of lights on his hand, on his face.

It was a good face, handsome really, with a strong jaw and just a suggestion of a cleft in the chin. The cheekbones were high and sharp above the softly hallowed cheeks and the straight, sharp blade of his nose. His eyes were blue, a good solid blue the color of the cloudless sky or the river undisturbed in summer. The face was regal, almost arrogant in its beauty and topped by thick, shiny crop of dark blonde hair that had a tendency to curl a little over his ears and forehead in the heat.

He inhaled sharply, letting the acrid smoke fill his lungs and held it as his mind wandered. It didn't take a genius to figure out that something was going to happen. These dreams were always prophetic in some way. The hard part was figuring out if it was something he was supposed to stop or something that had already happened that he was supposed to uncover.

He slid his hand farther along the nightstand until it closed over the warmth of solid metal. His baby: his Desert Eagle. He traced the lines with his fingers, felt the smoothness of the grip. A moment of sheer comfort slid over his soul. It always helped relax him; somehow it was as if he knew there was power in it, strength.

He crushed the cigarette out in the overflowing ash tray on the nightstand and stood up slowly. The sheet fell away like water and he padded naked through the bedroom and into the bathroom.

A flick of his fingers had the harshness of the over head light spilling down onto his face. He squinted and his eyes and stared at his face in the mirror. He looked…stark. It was the only word he could think of to describe himself. There were dark circles under his eyes and an underlying paleness to his skin that managed to make him look pasty.

He certainly wasn't going to win any beauty contests looking like this.

But, it wasn't the first or the last time he'd go without sleep. It seemed to be in his lot in life to lose sleep.

He practically fell into the shower. The stinging heat of the water felt like nirvana. He thrust his face into the spray and tried to finish waking up.

He wasn't entirely sure he was ready for another trip down evil lane. Didn't a man deserve a break once in awhile? It had been less than three months since his last case. He spent the better part of eight months tracking down what had turned out to be nothing more than rabid dogs that had been attacking the smaller animals in a suburban area. So, he'd saved the day for every spoiled little fluff ball mutt and cat in the area. All hail the conquering hero.

He wasn't sure he could take another bum case like that. He wasn't Ace Ventura for Christ's sake.

He slid out of the water, slipped a towel around his waist and was in the kitchen making coffee when the door bell rang.

A quick glance at the clock on the stove told him it was just shy of five a.m. He wasn't sure who would be paying a social call at this time in the morning.

He hoped to god it wasn't Ryman. He wasn't up to the daily trials of the dumb and hopeless today. As much as he loved his erstwhile, candy bar loving friend, he was just too damn tired to deal with it.

He walked from the kitchen, down the tiny hallway toward the door, careful not to trip over discarded shoes or magazines as he went.

As far as houses went, his wasn't a winner. It was a moderately sized (small) beach front condo (shack) with a slanted, peeling roof, two bedrooms, one bath, a kitchen that doubled as a wash room and a living room that was probably about half the size of a sardine can.

He absolutely loved it.

It wasn't that he couldn't afford better. His family had plenty of money. He was a Kennedy, after all. And he made ridiculous amounts of money doing what he did. It turned out being the right hand of god had its monetary advantages as well as social ones.

So, he could have probably been living rather comfortably in a modest sized mansion in the Garden District or a penthouse apartment in the Vieux Carre (French Quarter to the layman) but he liked this shack that sat a few feet away from the Gulf of Mexico and that smelled like the bayou and tasted like the salt of the sea.

At night, when the humid air was just shy of cool and the willows that slid their branches through the murkiness of the shore line were whispering secrets to the night, it was easy to pretend nothing had ever changed for himself. That he was just a simple man with nothing more then no money and an uncertain future.

The house was his haven. And, like the havens of all men, often quite dirty. His clothes went unwashed until he was down to the very last threads he possessed, he had magazines from a year ago stacked up on the small oak table in the living room and stuffed under the couch; shoes missing mates were spread from kitchen to bedroom like a line of rejected people at the unemployment office. He often tripped upon entering and tripped upon leaving but it was perfect. Really perfect.

He got to the front door without too much hassle and pulled open the front door without looking through the peep hole. He seldom did. If someone was going to shoot him in the face when the door opened, so be it. At least he wouldn't have to have his last moments filled with fear.

The heat of the morning washed through the door; still cool enough that it tickled his skin but warm enough that his damp hair would no doubt begin to curl before he shut the door again.

He had a moment of surprise when he saw who was standing on his sagging porch, managing to look pristine even in the muggy morning heat.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman waiting on his door step at the crack of dawn in the morning. And none of them that he could remember had ever managed to look so regal while doing so. Most of them consisted of box dyed hair, outrageous tattoos and cleavage that went down to their waist.

The woman staring back at him was anything but trashy.

She wasn't very tall. If he had to hazard a guess he'd put her at five foot two tops and she was built slim through the hips and stomach. Although there was no hiding the generousness of her chest even under the serviceable navy blue of her suit jacket and damned if she wasn't wearing a knee length navy skirt and high heels even out here in the middle of the bayou. He didn't want to imagine what it was like to slug through foot deep areas of swamp in three inch heels.

Although admittedly, his property was closer to beach in most areas then swamp.

Her hair, soft and red, was pulled tightly back from her face into a harsh knot at the base of her neck. Without the hair surrounding it, the face was beautiful. He figured there was maybe a hundred women in the whole world that could go without make up, with their hair slicked back like a man and still manage to be beautiful.

She had high cheekbones and a mouth that was just a little wide and little bottom heavy. Her eyes were hidden behind reflective lenses in, what he figured would be about six hundred dollar, sunglasses. There was a dusting of freckles over her narrow nose.

He was suddenly very conscious about the fact that he was standing in the door way in a faded blue bath towel. But, he was also very careful not to let her see that.

She said, in a voice that soft and had an accent that he found hard to place, "Mr. Kennedy?"

When he nodded, she pulled back one side of the navy jacket and brought his attention to the suggestion of the shoulder holster and the shiny gold shield attached to belt of her skirt.

He had another one of his classic moments of blankness before it registered. Then he said, softly, "Shit." and pushed one hand against the door frame, the other going up to rub at his forehead and the headache threatening to grow behind his eyes.

The woman smiled, cajoling and understanding at the same time and a small dimple flashed to right side of her mouth. "Sorry to disturb you at this time in the morning, Mr. Kennedy but I'm Special Agent Redfield. Do you mind if I come in for a minute? I just have some questions."

Leon Kennedy sighed and stepped back from the door. "Do I get to ask what this is about?"

Redfield stepped over the threshold. "I'd be shocked if you didn't."

Leon nodded and started through the living room. "I've got coffee on. You want some?"

"Sure. That would be great." She followed him down the hallway, careful to avoid tragedy by stepping over shoes.

Leon moved easily, pouring coffee into two clean mugs and placing one on the small island in the middle of the kitchen. His mind was still trying to wrap itself around what the feds might want with him when Redfield cleared her throat and said, in a completely blank voice.

"I can wait a few minutes if you'd like to…put something on."

Leon looked up at her face and saw the light blush that had crept over her cheeks. He'd forgotten he was in just a towel but it seemed that she hadn't.

He nodded absently and said, "Sure. I'll be right back, just make yourself comfortable."

He wandered into the bedroom and scrounged around until he found a pair of clean underwear, his faded jeans from the night before and ribbed tank top that usually served as an undershirt.

Barefoot, he padded back into the kitchen and found that Agent Redfield had made her way out of the kitchen, through the sliding door, and out onto the screened back porch.

Leon picked up his mug of coffee and followed, sliding the door closed at his back.

She turned as she heard him and she'd taken off her sunglasses.

He'd been wrong, her eyes weren't brown, they were blue. Almost startlingly, pale blue. The only words that came to mind were arctic sky. The eyes themselves were almond shaped and just slightly tilted at the ends and heavily lashed. Exotic. They were exotic. Like a cat.

Shaking himself mentally, Leon stepped up to lean against the railing and face her.

He said, "What can I do for you anyway?"

He figured that he probably wasn't imagining her face was still a little flushed. But it could have been from the heat. He didn't think so, but it could have been.

She cleared her throat once and skimmed her hand over her hair, a nervous gesture. Yeah, it wasn't the heat. Or at least not the kind that comes from the bayou.

"How much land do you own, Mr. Kennedy?"

"It's Leon."

She just looked at him.

Shrugging, he said. "I dunno really. I think something like a hundred acres. Why?"

She tilted her head, studying him he imagined. Trying to figure him out. "Because last night, someone was murdered on your property. So now you get to tell me where you were between midnight and four this morning."

Leon stood up slowly, feeling his blood chill. The dream. It had to have something to do with the dream. On his property, on his fucking property.

He ran a hand around the back of his neck. "Jesus. I got in about two o'clock this morning. Before that I was at O'Malley's over on Bourbon Street with a buddy of mine, Kevin Ryman."

"Can anyone verify that you were there until two o'clock?"

He just looked at her. "Yeah, Ryman and everybody else in the place I'd imagine. It was my birthday party. When I left, the party was still goin'." Leon just shrugged. "The bartenders name is Tim. He'll tell you that I was there until two o'clock and when I stumbled out, I was so shit faced that I dropped trow and pissed all over Ryman's brand new Mazda."

Redfield managed to maintain a blank face through this tirade. He wondered if she was considering the fact that he seemed to be volunteering too much information. He just felt like she needed to know that he'd been drunk. He couldn't have murdered anyone. He wouldn't have.

She stared at him for a long moment before she said, "Okay. What about between two and four?"

Leon sighed. "I got in about two, fell into the shower and then collapsed into bed. I just got out of bed about fifteen minutes before you came callin'."

"Were you alone?"

"What?"

"Were you alone in bed?"

He looked at her for a long moment and then smiled. "I wasn't that drunk."

Her face flushed again and Leon couldn't help himself, he was pleased. She was doing her job but he'd have bet his right eye that she'd had an alternative reason for asking.

Leon leaned back on the railing. "Her name's Ginger Franks. She's a deputy with the 68th precinct. The same station that Ryman works in. I'm betting you'll find both of them there."

Agent Redfield nodded and scribbled in the little notebook she held in her right hand. Leon wondered if she was putting little X's through Deputy Franks name.

Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a plastic baggy that contained a Louisiana driver's license with a picture of a shiny faced blonde with overly tanned skin and blue eyes. The corner of the license was brown with old blood. The license said Marianne Beth Costas.

Leon stared at the license for a long moment. He wanted to remember the face, it was important that he remember what she had looked like. Because, deep down, he knew he was going to have to help her. He didn't know why or how yet but she was dead because of him. And the dream had been telling him that he was the only person in the darkness that could save her.

He lifted his eyes, met those of Special Agent Valentine and said, "Who is she?"

"She's the dead girl, Mr. Kennedy."

"I got that. I mean, who is she?"

"She's the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Enrique Costas. They are the owners of the Costas Air Travel Agency. She was eighteen, pretty and Harvard bound. Now she's dead, on your property and I'm going to find out why." There was something on her face, something determined that made Leon realize that maybe, just maybe she didn't think he was responsible.

But the cop in her wouldn't let her ignore the facts. Marianne Costas was dead and unless Ginger would back his story that she'd spent those few hours with him (debatable as he'd pretty much passed out in the middle of anything exciting and she'd been after him for months) he was about to become the number one suspect.

Leon sighed and looked out over the Gulf of Mexico. The sun was rising steadily now and the softness that came with early morning was fading. From the heaviness of the air, Leon was betting it was going to be a scorcher.

Agent Redfield intoned quietly. "Stay available, Mr. Kennedy. And stay in the area."

"I know the drill."

"Good. Have a nice day. I'll be in touch." She turned and opened the screen door, slipping down the steps. Apparently she was going to walk back around the house to her car.

Leon watched her go and wondered if he'd see the inside of a jail cell before night fall.


	3. Day One: Chapter Two

**Day One:**

 **Chapter Two:**

* * *

 _"The Face of Death struck fear in me and so I tried to run._

 _A chase! With glee it clapped it hands! I so do love the fun!_

* * *

Claire pulled over a mile down the dirt road that had lead to that little shack at the edge of the bayou. Her heart was still racing, her palms were sweaty. It was one the reasons she hadn't offered to shake hands upon departure.

She laid her head back against the head rest and licked her lips.

It had been too long. That was all; it had been too long since she'd been with a man.

She was the joke of the office really. Saint Redfield, Chaste Claire, the woman made out of steel. The only one who never even thought about sex; let alone partake of such sin.

She wanted them to see her that way. It made things so much easier. The men respected her, the women admired her. She was, if not liked, looked up to by quite a few other Agents in the Bureau.

She was the straight arrow. She never wavered, never faltered and always, always did her job. She never got too close, never went too far, never tested the limits. And yet, in about five minutes, had managed to (mentally) cross every boundary she had ever set for herself.

All for the sight of a small, ragged blue towel, a well defined, dewy torso and a face likely carved by angels (or devils.)

She was fairly certain she'd handled herself professionally, at least mostly so. But he was a man, and likely picked up on every moment of discomfort she'd felt in his presence. It was clear that he knew he'd affected her in a distinctly masculine way. He'd smiled, he'd posed, and he'd all but winked at her. But, then again, it was possible that was her own interest talking and he'd simply been his own charming self, treating her as he would any member of the opposite sex.

There was no doubt that Leon Kennedy was a flirt. She'd known that much about him before she'd even walked up the porch to his front door. She'd even known that he was handsome, having studied his case file and seen the picture on the bio in his file folder more than once. But the picture hadn't prepared her for the man. The only word she could think of to describe him was charisma. The man was loaded down with charisma and (quite obviously) knew how to use it.

Claire slid her hands over the wheel, a comfort gesture. She was being ridiculous really. He hadn't been interested in her, not in the slightest. Not like it would have made a difference anyway even if he'd gotten down on one knee and proclaimed his all consuming love for her. He was a suspect and she was a straight arrow. She wouldn't stray. No way.

She was fairly certain he'd never seen Marianne Costas before. The moment he'd seen her picture, there'd been blankness in his eyes, confusion. Claire was the best Agent she knew at reading body language. His shoulders had tightened but she was betting that was just because it was suddenly real, no longer just her word.

She pressed her foot back on the gas and eased out onto the road, driving slowly and carefully. She had to get herself together. She had people to interview.

Logically, she knew she should swing by O'Malley's, check on the first of his alibi. By she found herself making a right onto the highway instead. Apparently, she was going to the 68th precinct and was going to pay a visit to a certain Deputy.

It wasn't jealousy. For god's sake she'd only just met the man. It was just good detective work. Just good detective work that's all. (Right.)

The 68th precinct was a dirty grey building wedged between a donut shop and an athletic store. It was sort of like the oldest cop joke in the book. All they had to do was walk next door and they'd have all the fat and carbs their little hearts desired.

Claire slid out of the unmarked black sedan and strode across the parking lot, past two rather beat up cruisers and up the stone steps to the front doors of the building. Inside the lobby, a woman of loose morals (a prostitute) sat handcuffed to a steel bar on a ratty looking bench in front of the counter.

She cast a look at Claire as she came through the door, one that quite obviously was meant to be degrading.

Claire ignored her and walked toward the counter to a rather loudly stated, "Oink."

The man at the desk, a portly fellow with graying hair and a well tended moustache, said blandly, "Lucinda, knock it off, would ya?" He flashed a smile at Claire and she took the time to read his badge. Fricker.

"What can I help ya with ma'am?"

She pushed her jacket to the side and unclipped her shield, placing it on the counter. "Special Agent Redfield, F.B.I. I need to see Detective Ryman and Deputy Franks."

Officer Fricker's smile faded. He looked like he was going to say something less then accommodating when a voice called, "Officer Fricker, be so kind as to let the Agent through."

Claire turned her eyes to study the man who'd spoken. He was tall, incredibly handsome, and had just a little suggestion of muscle gone to fat around his middle and through his cowboy weathered face. His hair waved brilliant, sprinkled with salt and pepper, and reminded her of Clint Eastwood. She kept hearing Dirty Harry in her head as she looked at him. His eyes, surprisingly pretty, were a soft shade of blue and sat above a slightly crooked nose and small mouth surrounded by a dark five o'clock shadow. Since it was barely six a.m. she was assuming he probably had the shadow all the time.

He was dressed in a pair of slight rumpled mud brown slacks and a shirt that couldn't really be called any other color then pink. His tie, dark green with Christmas trees all over it, told her he'd probably dressed in the dark before coming into work that morning. There was a shield clipped to his belt that looked shiny and out of place against such a sad wardrobe.

She smiled and said, "Detective Ryman?"

"Yep. Why don't you come on back? I'll have Officer Simms over here get us some coffee." He turned to a fresh faced looking rookie who was no doubt straight out of the academy and said, "Simms, see if you can find Franks while you're at it."

Officer Simms nodded eagerly, puffed up his chest with importance and surprisingly didn't trip on himself in his effort to do Ryman's bidding.

Claire opened the gate leading back into the inner sanctum and walked toward the office that Ryman was currently standing in front of.

They shook hands (hers was dry by now) and he escorted her with a hand on the back through the door into his cramped, but somehow charming, office.

He cleared a few books off a rather plush looking chair and gestured for her to have a seat. After she did, he rounded the rickety old desk and sat down himself. The chair groaned under the assault.

He managed to smile, (which made him seem almost charmingly suave) and said. "What can I do for you?"

She smiled and took out her notebook. "Were you at O'Malley's Pub between the hours of midnight and four a.m. last night?"

For a moment, Ryman just sat there, shocked. Then he said, "Uh, yeah. Actually. Can I ask why you want to know?"

"Well, obviously someone's dead Detective." She smiled when she said it. See? Just a harmless question with a serious outcome.

Ryman's smile faltered, "Right. Yeah I was at the pub from about ten until about four this morning."

"Were you there with –"She looked down at the notebook pretending to check the name, although she damn well knew it. "A Mr. Leon Kennedy?" And she really hated that her belly clenched on his stupid name. What a dumb name. Like a ridiculous video game character. Or a Harlequin Romance novel hero. Stupid name. Kennedy. Stupid. (Right.)

Ryman managed not to look surprised this time. He had on his cop face now. "Yeah. It was his birthday."

"What time did Mr. Kennedy leave the pub?"

"About a quarter to two I think."

"Was he alone when he left?"

Ryman couldn't keep the scorn off his face now. "No. He was with Deputy Franks. Though I'm pretty sure you already knew that."

"Just corroborating the story, Detective. That's my job."

"Right. Anyway, he was wasted, he left with Franks."

"Do you know where he went after he left the pub?"

Ryman leaned back in his chair, making it creak. "Can't say I do. Although I'd assume after he pissed all over my car, he probably took Franks back to his place."

Claire nodded and opened her mouth to ask something else when the office door opened and a perfectly coiffed head poked through.

"Detective? Simms said you wanted to see me."

"Yeah, Franks. Come on in." Ryman gestured and Jill watched Officer Franks walk through the door.

She was pretty much what Claire had been expecting. She was all boobs and slender lines from head to foot. Her hair, a very dark blonde (probably fake), was pulled back into a high ponytail with swishy little tail. She looked rested, her make up was perfect and her face was something that struck a little too close to Blake Lively for Claire's taste.

"This is Special Agent Redfield from the F.B.I. She has a few questions she'd like to ask you."

Franks' eyebrows lifted and she turned her gaze to Claire as if noticing her for the first time.

After a moment of studying each other, Claire said, "Officer Franks. Where were you between the hours of two and four a.m. last night?"

Franks' face pinked, just the slightest bit. She said, quite softly, "I…um…I don't really think…"

"Franks, just tell the Agent where you were." Ryman's voice was tired.

"I was with…a friend."

Claire's smile was harsh. "The name of this friend is…?"

"Kennedy. Leon S. Kennedy."

S. Kennedy. S for stupid, clearly. Stupid name. S for son of satan. Or maybe S for sexual deviant. S for seriously likes to fuck. Or S for seeking female fuck buddy. Or S for -Claire coughed to cover her own clearly wandering mind.

Claire nodded. "I see. And what time did you leave Mr. Kennedy's this morning?"

Franks managed to look embarrassed. "I think it was about a quarter to four."

"Did Mr. Kennedy leave your presence at any time between the time you arrived at his house and the time you left?"

Franks fidgeted a little bit. "Well, he uh took a shower for about ten minutes after we got there."

"And then?"

"Is this really necessary?" Ryman was looking positively ill at the thought of hearing intimate details.

Claire said, quite calmly, "Every detail helps, Detective. You know that. Officer?"

"And then we uh…we were intimate with each other for about fifteen minutes and he well…he uh fell asleep."

Ryman''s face went purple. He looked like he might swallow his tongue. The thrill of happiness on his face was nearly enough to make Claire laugh. Nearly. She kept it in, but it was close."Oh man…" And then, he couldn't hide the smile. "Fifteen minutes…" He snickered under his breath. "I always knew it."

Claire managed to hold in her laugh. "Okay. Did he leave or exit the bed again before you left?"

"No. He was passed out like the dead." Franks looked a little disappointed by that. But she giggled. Claire didn't want to make snap judgments here, but it was hard to hate this girl. She was clearly good natured...and clearly as dumb as she was charming with it. "I tried to sleep but I couldn't. So I turned on the light in the bedroom and read for awhile. Then about 3:30 I got dressed and had a muffin and left about a quarter to four."

"Okay." Claire stood slowly and smiled, complacently. "Alright then. That's about all I have for now. Detective Ryman, Officer Franks. Thank you for your time. Please stay available in case I have any more questions."

Franks nodded. Ryman said, "Hey, is Leon in some kind of trouble? Besides being a two pump chump, of course."

Claire looked at him for a moment and light dawned on his face.

"This is about that girl, that Costas girl. They found her body on the edge of his property. You don't think…Leon wouldn't…no way…" Ryman shook his head, shocked.

Frank's managed to look oblivious. Though Claire figured it wasn't that hard of a look for her.

Claire sighed. "Thank you for your time. I'll be in touch."

She walked out of the precinct and was headed down the stone steps when she heard the roar of a motorcycle and looked up to see Leon S. (Slut man?) Kennedy swing himself between two cruisers and kill the engine.

She stopped, gathered herself and walked toward him as he dismounted. He was dressed in the outfit she'd left him in save for the addition of cranberry colored t-shirt that he'd thrown over the tank top she remembered. The shirt read "When he fuck me good, I take his ass to Red Lobster" in bold white letters across the chest with a picture of a lobster in the center. The sunglasses on his face were wrap around and polarized orange.

She stopped a foot from him and smiled. "Mr. Kennedy."

"Agent Redfield."

"That shirt is utterly offensive."

He grinned a little and shrugged, sheepishly, "You don't like Red Lobster?"

Claire laughed, lightly. "Not anymore. You ruined it for me."

"I certainly don't like offending the ladies. You want me to take it off instead?"

Yep. S for shirtless sex god. Yep. She narrowed her eyes at him. He looked like a charming thing standing there grinning and unflappable. She kinda wanted to kick him. She kinda wanted to rip off his shirt making monkey sounds and eat him.

Amused, she had to laugh at herself. Best to focus on what she did best: WORK.

She shook her head, "It's illegal to ride without a motorcycle helmet in Louisiana."

He managed to look sheepish. "Well, I think I lost my helmet."

"Right. Try to find that, would you? I'd hate to see such a pretty face smooshed all over the road somewhere." She started walking since she was unable to stay in his presence for too long without that intense pressure in her chest.

"Uh, hey."

She turned back, one eyebrow lifted. He had both hands tucked into his back pockets which...made his chest look like something you should sculpt and put in a courtyard somewhere for girls to giggle at while they sat by a fountain.

"I didn't do anything." He sounded earnest about it. He was still charming, sure, but there was an edge to his tone now that held her interest. No flirting. Just truth.

Weird thing was? She kinda believed him.

She tilted her head, studying him. "Both the detective and the officer corroborated your alibi."

"Does that mean I'm off the hook?"

"Not yet. It just means you're a little looser on it now."

He smiled, just a little lift of the mouth but it was enough to start her heart beating hard.

"Well, good to know." He took a step toward her. "Where you from, Agent Redfield?"

She barely managed not to take a step back. "Raccoon City."

"Ah, east coast. Shit, me too. Small world huh? I wondered about that accent."

She thought it was an odd comment from someone whose accent was so obviously southern. In fact, she was pretty sure she didn't have an accent at all. He had been living in Louisiana long enough now to sound like a native.

"You ever been to N'Orleans before?" There it was, she thought, that lilt. Interesting.

She studied him for a moment. "Can't say I have."

"What do you think so far?"

"It's hot and there are a lot of bugs."

His smile lifted, dangerously close to a grin. "That all?"

"I haven't exactly had time to sight see, Mr. Kennedy."

"Leon."

"Mr. Kennedy." She smiled.

"What? No first names with suspects?"

"Something like that."

His teeth were very white and very straight. "Well, I won't be a suspect f'eva."

It was the accent. It had to be. She was charmed by that old southern boy charm. He wasn't. Hadn't he said he came from Raccoon? They all had it seemed. Wasn't Ryman an RC native as well? They'd left Raccoon, according to her data, in what – 98? The same year her brother Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine had graduated the Academy and gone to join the Bureau.

"We'll see..." She paused, considering him, "You lived here long?"

He grinned a little, "Feels like all my life sometimes. I bought the old Baker Plantation a few years back when the family had that incident and ended up dead."

She remembered it, vaguely. Something to do with a mass murder. A brave, or weird, fellow to buy a plantation laced with ghosts and bad juju. But this New Orleans, the bad juju here was legendary. Wasn't she staying in a house once reportedly owned by Marie Laveau?

Claire laughed, lightly, "You like ghosts, Mr. Kennedy?"

"...I like alot of things actually. And I love a good mystery."

She knew that too. He was good at what he did. A bit of a paranormal Indiana Jones, he had free reign to chase down weirdos and whackos and ghosts. He was the guy who published journals and reports on yetis and banshees, vampires and werewolves, nagas and Sphinxs. If it was chuckled about in polite company, Leon Kennedy was investigating it. The weird part? Most of the time what he discovered and reported could be verified. So he wasn't crazy.

He was just simultaneously the best in his field...and maybe the only one in it. So, it was pretty easy to be the best. He did had a weird little nerdy guy as a sidekick...what was his name? Quint...something. He was the Q to his proverbial Bond. Always inventing weird gadgets for catching ghouls and witches and such. Claire was curious to meet him.

Claire was curious to see the paranormal James Bond at work, actually, she just needed to clear him of killing girls on his property first.

And she'd been staring for too long, it seemed, since he was now highly amused with her.

"Last time a woman stared at me this long, I was in the third grade and had farted on her during square dancing."

Claire couldn't stop the laugh now, "...you're not as charming as you think you are, sir."

He grinned with that boyish lopsided charm. "...I kinda think I might be. Get lunch with me. Be rebel."

She kinda wanted to say yes.

So naturally? She smiled again and turned to walk to her car. "No. Good bye, Mr. Kennedy."

"Why don't you let me show you the town?"

She froze.

"Ya know. The hotspots. The night life." He poked his head around her shoulder. "Jackson Square, the Café du Monde. I'll take ya on the bike up by Lake Pontchartrain. We've got some real interestin' places down here."

She turned back to him. "Mr. Kennedy. I refuse to call you by your first name. What makes you think I would possibly even consider a date with you?"

He wagged his finger. "Not a date. A tour. Think of me like your down home, former east coast, currently native tour guide."

She felt her smile lift again. "Good bye Mr. Kennedy. I have a job to do."

"Tell me you'll think about it."

She laughed, unable to stop herself.

"Come on. Just say you'll think about it."

"It would be a lie."

"I can live with that."

"Okay. I'll think about it."

She left him smiling at her and for the life of her, couldn't figure out why she knew, deep down, that it hadn't been a lie at all.

For now? She had to the crime scene...charming paranormal Indiana Jones or not...there was still a dead girl on his property. And he was a guy who bought the bayou version of a hell house, spent his days tracking nightmares, and his nights in bed with bimbos (which had...no relevance whatsoever on the murder...but she was sure hung up on the image of it...damnit.)

Either way? He was at the top of her watch list. She would NOT be slumming around the south with him on some kind of tour. No.

She didn't a rat's ass how adorable his sexy little smile was.

She was NOT going to fuck him so good he took her to Red Lobster...today. At least not today.

Out loud, Claire scoffed, "EVER. Not ever...idiot."

And she was still shaking her head as she angled the ugly sedan toward the crime scene.

* * *

 **Post Note:** _Sorry if you catch typos in here or any mistakenly typed Jill's where it should be Claire. Obviously, I write WAY too much Jill with Leon. I catch myself automatically putting her name down as I write. Mega fail._


	4. Day One: Chapter Three

**_A/N:_** _I love a good murder mystery. Even more, I love the southern set up for it allowing me to include the Baker Plantation as the basis for my tale here. Heavily inspired by Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and even Agatha Christie for pacing as this progresses in terms of tone and concept, I hope to play around with familiar faces in an AU world. I actually have several concepts for this version of Leon laid out if this story does what I want._

 _If you aren't a fan of murder mystery, voodoo, the New Orleans culture I'm bringing or the concept of Claire and Leon as an alternate version of Mulder and Scully, this is probably not where the wind blows you. I'll try to keep everybody as in character as possible, personality wise, while playing with a world linked to but not directly related to BioTerror. Thank you, as always for reading, and take a look at post notes for referenced works within this chapter. All are great resources for voodoo._

 **Day** **One:**

 **Chapter Three:**

* * *

 _"And from the dark the voices sang - oh merrily and well,  
_

 _A generous and fearful thing - a symphony from hell-"_

* * *

The wavering heat turned the air into a wet shimmer. Where you walked, your feet sank into the soggy sand beneath you.

The bayou was ripe with bugs and fetid water and rich plant life. A bayou, often mistakenly thought to simply be a swamp, was actually taken from a Cajun French term of similar distinction. It was typically a low-lying body of water found in flat areas and adjacent to either extremely negligently flowing rivers or marshy lakes and wetlands. It was often, as well, used to describe a creek that changes directions daily with the tide while maintaining brackish water perfect for fish life and plankton. Bayous were often boggy and stagnant and filled with all the good things found in quaint Cajun cooking: crawfish, shrimp, shellfish and catish. Snakes and leeches were often found in the murky waters and plenty of turtles and gators and crocs.

Often, the plethora of natural predators made it a frequent spot to dump a body. Nature had a way of cleaning up the mess left behind after a sloppy kill.

Kennedy's property encompassed such a huge expanse of land that pinning the murder of Costas on him was simply a matter of having no one better. What was circumstantial about all of it? This wasn't the first murder like this. The reason the FBI was here was really quite simple: Marianne Costas was the grand daughter of an important man. She was also the third in a series of similar murders crossing state lines.

When things went multi-state, homicide became a federal issue. Usually, something this minor - a series of seemingly unconnected murders, wouldn't even have fallen in the same column as being linked but for one very, very distinctive link: voodoo.

No study of ghostly tales or strangeness in New Orleans would be complete without mention of Marie Laveau, the unchallenged "Queen of Voodoo" in New Orleans. This mystical religion was as big a tourist interest in New Orleans as jazz, Cajun food and Mardi Gras. Laveau, often rumored to be either immortal or having been reincarnated into the daughter of a daughter of a daughter, was never far from being linked to anything remotely similar to voodoo practice in the south.

The layman assumed all voodoo was dark magic and that all voodoo was the same when, in fact, there were so many sects of it, in practice and across the globe, that pinpointing the certain kind you were chasing could take days and weeks and meant sitting in countless lecture halls learning from the nerds who studied it.

Claire had spent many a lovely day in dusty amphitheaters from Harvard to Tulane learning everything about what she was hunting here. She paced the crime scene in her simple suit, studying the blood stains and the left over chicken feathers, the scales of the snakes, the symbols on the trees and what was left of the circle they'd made upon the ground. She went over the details in her head as she knelt, paying close attention to the details of the etchings still left in the soggy sand.

The first body had been graced with **gris-gris -** or a small cloth sack filled with "magic". Gris-gris, pronounced _gree-gree_ , would take a range of forms, with some practitioners including minerals, roots, herbs, seals written on paper, and even graveyard dust into a small bag to be placed on the body of the person they were made for. There were many purposes for them - from love to loss to wealth and prosperity. But some were made, as well, to court evil (*1*).

The one found on the victim before Costas had led her to believe this voodoo was Louisiana in origin. This gris-gris had contained graveyard dust from **Lafayette Cemetery No. 1**. The connection was still loose on why and what and where. Was it an homage to the victim? To the killer? To someone buried there? It was impossible to know without digging deeper into the voodoo behind the death (*2*).

Slave ships from West Africa first brought Voodoo to Louisiana. Practitioners knew which plants and herbs could heal and which could bring about hallucinations, sickness, and death.

Louisiana Voodoo, also known as New Orleans Voodoo, described a set of spiritual folkways developed from the traditions of the African diaspora. It is a cultural form of the Afro-American religions developed by West and Central Africans populations of the U.S. state of Louisiana. Voodoo was one of many incarnations of African-based spiritual folkways rooted in West African _Dahomeyan Vodun_. Its liturgical language was Louisiana Creole French.

Voodoo became synchronized with the Catholic and Francophone culture of New Orleans as a result of the African cultural oppression in the region resulting from the Atlantic slave trade. Louisiana Voodoo was often confused with—but not completely separable from—Haitian Vodou and Deep Southern Hoodoo. It differed from Haitian Vodou in its emphasis upon gris-gris, Voodoo queens, use of Hoodoo paraphernalia, and Li Grand Zombi. It was through Louisiana Voodoo that such terms as gris-gris and Voodoo dolls were introduced into the American lexicon (*3*). Now any urban dictionary in the world would host a variety of plays on the meaning behind the words. Hell - gift shops dealt in the trade of voodoo with apparent aplomb and majesty, offering Laveau and her craft up to the world like a goddess of her own faith.

Voodoo, the true practice of it, was hard to discern from the butchery of the bastardized american version of it among those who studied the occult and the fantastic.

Claire Redfield was rapidly becoming a leading authority on Voodoo. She'd taken the scholars path to learn it. She'd never spent more time than tits deep in literature in the library; at seminars and lectures, at the knee of some "expert." She was obsessed and it was culminating quickly for her here in this pitiful swamp.

Costas' body had possessed a gris-gris around her savaged neck. Inside the little bag was all manner of bad luck juju - including a dried lizard, a rooster's heart and the little finger of a person who, Claire discovered upon running the prints, had committed suicide. Costas was being cursed.

The question was why?

What and who had she known and what connection did she have to two other college girls in New York and Florida? What was the killer doing crossing state lines? Did it originate here, in the hotbed of the home of the greatest voodoo practioner of all time? If so, why the wrong cemetary? And what was the connection to Laveau and the gris-gris on the victims?

Was it all circumstantial?

And what was the connection to Kennedy? Was it, again, just situational? He'd bought a property that had been the center of a mystery involving alot of unsolved deaths and a lot of murky cover up. He was, again, the Indiana Jones of weird - so the purchase wasn't all that surprising. She was betting Doctor Strange was enjoying the hell out of a possibly haunted stomping ground. But what did it mean that Costas was found on land that was, allegedly, stained in the blood of those known as "hornless goats" - or human sacrifices?

Nothing. Again. Maybe. Maybe nothing.

Maybe a fantastic cover. Maybe he was a killer pretending to be a hero. Maybe he was murdering people because exploring all the freaks in the world had turned him into a one himself. Maybe his perfect body was spending it's nights in a mask made from the skin of an animal while he sacrificed virgins to the loa for power.

She stopped, picturing it - and it just didn't wash. It was stupid, entirely, to use instinct to judge a man. It was. But she felt wrong about it. It felt wrong to picture him slaughtering women. She knew, through researching him, that he was a killer. That part was true. Before he'd become the Doctor of Strange Shit, he'd been a pretty bad ass up and comer. He'd retired, unceremoniously, from the field without an explanation. The files were all sealed up and protected. Why? Why leave at the height of a promising career?

Lots of questions.

No answers.

She jotted in her notebook, copying down the symbols she could make out in the bloody sand. It was a veve, clearly, a representation of whatever loa had been the heart of this ritual where Costas had been sacrificed. In the others, no same loa had been used. This one, as well, was different. It would take some digging to find out which one.

She snapped pictures with her phone and logged. She jotted a sketch of it in her notebook.

She was penning down her thoughts on the feathers and the left over candles and positioning of the chalk outline from Costas body when the voice had her jumping in the air.

"...Baron Samedi."

Claire dropped her pen and squeaked.

She glanced up to find Leon Kennedy standing over her shoulder. He wasn't looking charming or flirtatious or adorable, he looked a little concerned. He looked, somehow, reflective. She watched his face as he crouched beside her. He picked up her pen and gestured to the symbol as he spoke.

"Baron Samedi is the loa of sex and resurrection. He's the white faced guy in the top hat you see in all the gift shops. He stands at the crossroads, where the souls of dead humans pass on their way to the underworld. He digs your grave and meets your risen soul to guide you to the darkness. As well as being the all-knowing loa of death, he is a sexual loa, frequently represented by phallic symbols. He is noted for disruption, obscenity, debauchery, and for having a particular fondness for tobacco and fucking."

Claire watched his face, enraptured by the flashing intelligence there. Was that the kicker here? Was it the brains under the beauty?

She followed the line of the pen as he gestured to it. "He is notorious for his outrageous behavior, swearing continuously and making filthy jokes to the other spirits. He loves smoking and drinking and is rarely seen without a cigar in his mouth or a glass of rum in his bony fingers."

Claire studied the veve as he connected the pieces in the bloody sand. She watched the whole of it start to emerge. It was clearly a gesture of a joke played at Christianity as it started to form a cross in the connotation of it. And she asked, softly, "Why him? Why that loa?"

Kennedy laughed, but there was no humor on his face, "I don't know. But it's interesting. And a little scary."

"Why?"

He glanced at her face and shook his head, sighing, "The running joke down here is that I'm always channeling Samedi. Flirting, fucking girls, drinking and smoking - straddling life and death with what I do. The bad language, the messing around, the perpetual Peter Pan syndrome..."

"The bad boy of loas?"

He laughed a little, lightly, "Apparently."

"Why would someone aim this at you, Mr. Kennedy? You fuck the wrong guys wife?"

He lifted a brow, volleying his gaze over her pretty face. Nothing on it that said she was implying. She was just asking. It was her job to ask questions after all.

He'd made a career out of asking them.

So he answered her, "Not recently. But I rub people wrong in my business, Agent Redfield. All the time. I debunk the fakers, I expose the liars, I reveal the truth. It doesn't make me popular. And I'm not the poster child for chastity or good behavior. I am, however, honest about who I am."

"And who's that?"

He glanced at her mouth and back at her face, " A guy who likes a good mystery, a stiff drink, and a willing woman."

Yep, Claire thought, sounded about right. But there was something refreshing about the honesty of it. He was charming because he was, literally, not hiding anything.

And so she asked, "You wanna tell me about your enemies?"

He tilted his head a little, looking at her, "Not yet. You accusing me?"

She laughed, shaking her head, "Not yet. The day isn't over though, Mr. Kennedy."

"...story of my life."

His voice trailed off. He glanced back at her face. What was interesting? She didn't appear to be judging him. She was thinking. Like he was thinking. And they were both thinking the same thing: it was either a stab at him here - or a really scary coincidence.

And it wasn't helping him look innocent.

He held her gaze for a long moment and finally, intoned, "I didn't kill her."

Claire said nothing.

And finally? She mused, "Why do you sound so unsure about that?"

Somewhere, a yellow billed cuckoo set up a musical cry. It punctuated their stare down. Kennedy responded, softly, "If you think I did it, why haven't you arrested me?"

"...because I don't know what I think. And I can't prove anything. If you didn't kill her, why are you here?"

He held her gaze, unflinching. "To find out who did."

Sweat slid over his brow. It lingered at his left eye and trembled in the heavy hair of his left eyebrow. She watched it, waited, and it slid toward his eye. Her hand shot out and slid over it, flicking it away.

He jerked when she touched him, amusing her. Claire said, softly, "It would have burned if it got in your eye."

He lifted a brow and his mouth twitched, "My hero."

They were really too close, Claire thought fuzzily, they really were. Crouched together in the boiling heat with maybe a foot between them. Too close. But she didn't back off. She felt her glasses get a little foggy in the muggy air looking at him...but she didn't back off.

Interesting.

And very telling for her. One thing she knew? He was the first person she'd met here with knowledge of this loa on the ground and she needed to know what he knew. As of now? He wasn't just a suspect - he was an expert consultant.

She opened her notebook and took out the photo. It was Costas, a crime scene photo, clearly. It showed the pretty girl in the license from before but she wasn't pretty anymore. She was naked and disemboweled. She lay on an altar of some kind, surrounded by the chalk and the powder and the feathers of the chickens. She was flecked in blood that was likely not hers, and coated in the pool of her own from when she'd died. She'd died painfully, probably bound and afraid, and bleeding to death before they'd taken her heart.

It was carved, carefully and brutally, from her chest.

Claire said, quietly, "The heart was missing as well as the intestines. What's the symbolism of that in relation to Samedi?"

Leon studied the photo, the imagery, and the feeling of it. It hurt him. Why? Why did it coil snakes of fear and pain in his guts? Was it the dreams? Was it the nightmares?

Why fear them?

He'd had them all his life.

"First guess?"

Claire nodded, "Sure. First guess."

"Sorcery of some kind." He considered it and the context of the girl and the missing pieces of her, "Sorcery is within the power of Baron and the spirits of the Geude Family which he heads. The efficacy of evil spirits and magic poisons depends on him. If he declines the ritual calling for him, for instance, invocations and rites...they're useless. They took her heart - why? I can't answer that for you. But it was an offering. The question is - what were they offering it for?"

Claire met his eyes over the photo. She said nothing again, studying him like a suspect in an interrogation, "You tell me."

He shook his head, face cool and collected, "I don't know. I wish I did."

She considered things and went with her gut here, "...it wasn't Samedi at the other murders."

There. THERE. That's what she'd been fishing for. That reaction. He flinched around the eyes. He looked sick. He looked a little angry. And he said, "There were others?"

She nodded, watching him quietly, "Two. Both in heavy Haitian populated cities. That's why I'm here. That's what makes this Federal territory Mr. Kennedy. It's all connected. The thing I need to find out, is what connects them."

He watched a bead of sweat slide down her nose in the murky summer heat. "Who were the other two?"

Claire said, gently, "A coed at NYU. And a waitress in Miami."

Kennedy studied the photo again, brow furrowed, "No connection with the status of them?"

Claire shook her head, "The coed was straight A's, good girl type - boyfriend was a highschool sweetheart. Daddy was a preacher. The waitress ran with the wrong crowd in Little Haiti, she wasn't on the best of terms with her single mother who frequented lock up and left her pretty shitty poverty most of her life. There's no connection I can find between them. None. But for the fucking gris-gris and the way they died. Even the loas are different."

Leon looked up at her, head tilted, "So why are they connected? Voodoo happens. You said yourself, it's heavily Haitian - the areas where you find them. So that's reasonable for voodoo. So why the same killer? Where's the proof?"

Claire tossed the gris-gris in her hand between them. It landed on his boot. He picked up the little leather pouch and studied it. It had symbols carved into it. Inside, it had herbs and various pieces of bone and dust.

He lifted his brwos at her.

And she said, "The dust is from the Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. The symbolism of the gris-gris is classic Laveau. The problem with that?"

Leon filled in the answer, "She wasn't buried there."

"Right. Marie Laveau is generally believed to have been buried in plot 347, the Glapion family crypt in **Saint Louis Cemetery No. 1** **.** "

Leon shrugged a little, considering it, "It's all speculation, Agent Redfield. No one can prove that."

"Right." She sighed, dramatically, "But clearly the killer has a connection to Lafayette. Why? I need to find the link."

Leon rolled the gris-gris in his hand. He studied her. She studied him in return. Finally, he mused, "I can help you."

She'd considered that too. She knew he was the best suspect she had. She knew she felt, in her guts, that he was innocent. She knew, she couldn't prove it either way. She also knew he was the fucking best at what he did.

And so she replied, "We need to track the family of the bones in that bag. The first gris-gris had bones from a source I couldn't identify. The second body is still processing...but it's gonna come up the same as this one."

He tilted his head at her, "Why?"

"It will. The first one...it was processed before the prints were in the system. I guarantee it. When I rerun it, it's gonna come up the suicide. The same suicide. The same one. Why the same person? The answer starts there. I can feel it."

Kennedy nodded and rose. She stood as well and took the gris-gris he handed back to her.

He said, quietly, "I'll get in touch with my guy to find us some sources for local voodoo. My suggestion? You get in touch with Ryman to start hunting up info on the suicide."

He moved through the boggy marsh and Claire called after him, gently, "What about the cemetary?"

He turned back, smiling wryly and paced backward, watching her, "What else? I'll see you there tonight. How about a little twilight grave walking, Agent Redfield? I promised you the real N'Orleans. What better way to kick off the grand tour than a little sojourn with the dead?"

He winked. He turned.

She watched his ass in those faded jeans as he moved back through the swamp toward his motorcycle.

And finally, she called after him, forgetting the one important thing she'd let slip this whole time, "Hey!"

He turned back, threw his leg over his bike and cocked his head at her.

She called, hands on her hips, "How the hell did you find the location of a restricted crime scene!?"

He laughed. He shrugged. And he gunned the engine on his bike.

With a chuckle, he called, "What can I say? That's the other thing about N'Orleans you'll get used to."

She tilted her head at him, "What's that?"

"What else, _chere?_ Magic."

Claire watched him zip off into the dying sun. She sighed, shaking her head. Magic.

She didn't believe in magic. She didn't believe in conjuring ancient voodoo loa either.

But she was letting a suspect into her case to help her. She was letting big blue eyes and killer cheekbones distract her from flawless purpose here. She was eager to stand around with him and find out what he knew.

It was the case. Sure. But it was him.

She didn't believe in magic.

But she was rapidly coming to believe in the power of Leon Kennedy.

* * *

 **Post Note:**

 _*1*. The New Orleans Voodoo Handbook - by Kenaz Filan_

 _*2*._ _Charms, Spells, and Formulas: For the Making and Use of Gris Gris Bags, Herb Candles, Doll Magic, Incenses, Oils, and Powders-_ _by Ray T. Malbrough_

 _*3*. The Mystica_


	5. Day One: Chapter Four

**Day** **One:**

 **Chapter Four:**

* * *

 _"One and Two and Three again - And One was still as Three-,  
_

 _And Two was One - And One was Done - And still it seems to be-"_

* * *

The long stretch of highway led him around the mighty Mississippi and up toward the Garden District. The Garden District was the home of old money. The strong family ties were laid down and nourished there.

Most of the family inhabiting in the stately old manors were buried, conveniently enough, in the Lafayette Cemetery that their mysterious grave dust came from. The cemetery was plopped right smack dab in the middle of the Garden District. Although less popular and infamous than it's counter part the St. Louis Cemetary, the leafy Lafayette Cemetery was filled with ornate, 19th-century tombs.

In the charming Garden District, oak-shaded streets are lined with a diverse mix of homes, from single-story cottages to the grand historic mansions and lavish gardens of St. Charles Avenue- a favorite for tourists along the Mardi Gras parade route. Boutiques and antique shops sit alongside fine-dining restaurants, casual cafes and local bars on and around Magazine Street.

It was there, amongst the mess of shops that Leon Kennedy found himself rolling up to the first of his sources on voodoo.

A quick phone to Quint had the gears turning on more potential sites, but this one was easily enough found on YELP. She had five stars for being "awesome sauce squared, yo." She was a fortune teller, it would seem, and heavily immersed in the culture of the popular town that she inhabited.

Her name was Sheva Alomar and she was a fore teller of many things.

Whether laced with elements of voodoo or not, general fortune telling was a popular "sport" in New Orleans, a real tourist draw for those seeking to know their future, their past, and their present path to happiness or misfortune. The most commonly available forms of the practice were palmistry - where a medium would interpret the lines on the hand like reading a blue print of the brain, offering the viewer a portrait of the "forces" that guided and controlled the destiny of the hand in question - and tarot readings. There was some math, it would seem, involved in palmistry and some science.

The ancient art of tarot was largely revered as a "psychic" trait, where the seeker comes to the medium to be enlightened of the "truth" from symbols, messages, and divination of the "images" the medium received during the reading. lt was entirely spiritual and wasn't anything like reading the blueprint of the brain.

Sheva Alomar did both. She was also known for using her spirit animals to regard your path and find your answers in the beyond.

Honestly? It was probably mumbo jumbo, but he'd promised the FBI Agent currently considering him for murder that he'd check her out. Her name on a flyer in the Cafe Du Monde had led him here while Quint was digging up more leads.

The little house was quaint and charming. It was more on the edge near the Irish Channel than in the heart of the Garden District, but it was still part of the core, essentially. It was an adorable little shotgun style house in bright pink and purple. That was the thing about the Irish Channel - it never lacked for color.

This area was formerly a neighborhood of Irish working class immigrants who fled Ireland during the potato famine in the early 19th century. Many of these Irish workers helped build the New Basin Canal, which connected Lake Pontchartrain to the city. There were other immigrants as well, such as, Italians, Germans, and free African Americans. During the 20th century, most of the immigrants living in the Irish Channel worked in the nearby Port of New Orleans, and the many breweries that were common. They found the small cottages and rows of shotgun houses very affordable compared to the adjacent, more affluent, Garden District neighborhood.

Sheva Alomar made the bright colors and little house look inviting and revealing. It offered mystery and intrigue even as it told you that you were welcome. A good combination, and a brilliant business set up. Wind chimes hung from the pretty porch and tinkled in the heavy breeze musically, offering the flash of crystals and the deeper gong of bamboo with each rustle of movement.

He caught the scent of night blooming jasmine and sweet olive trees, a New Orleans staple, as he swung his leg over his bike and moved to knock on the bright yellow door.

The wafting scent of sage escorted him into the little house at the call from within.

It was dark and relaxing inside. It was cool and refreshing from the blistering heat outside. It was nice to escape it for a moment.

From beyond a beaded curtain, a pretty thing emerged. She was chocolately skin and big eyes. She was draped in shimmery scarves and a tiny little excuse for a skirt on ten feet of legs. She wore crystals and jade jewelry and tinkling bells on a chain around her flat, taut, toned little belly.

She smiled sweetly at him, "Welcome, seeker. Have you come to find your truth?"

At this point, he was thinking he might have come to find an woody, because she looked like a fortune teller from a porno he'd once watched as a boy. He laughed lightly and put his hand out to shake hers. "Looks that way, I'm Leon Kennedy, and I was actually hoping to ask you some questions."

Brow lifted, Sheva gestured to two plush arm chairs in pretty blue satin. They sat across from each other.

Between them? A big cage with an enormous yellow snake of some kind. It slithered, eyeing Leon like it might want to take a huge bite out of his throat for having dirty thoughts about his mistress. It was a buttery yellow color mixed with iridescent blue and white scales. He wondered if they'd match the ones at the crime scene.

Sure. That was likely after all, that he'd stumble right onto the killer by sheer luck. Sure. Yep. And the sexy fortune teller across from him was, also, going to drop right here and start "seeking his truth" right out of his trousers.

The idea made him chuckle and grin at her.

Sheva smiled politely, "What brings you to me, Mr. Kennedy?"

She rolled a small scrying stone in her hand as she spoke, watching his face calmly. The wall behind her was laced with crystals and masks paying homage to her ancestors. Candles lined the small buffet in rich wood against her other side, showing flickering shadows on the dusty rug.

Leon eased his boot over his knee, charming her with a smile. "I'm a seeker, Ms. Alomar, but not for my fortune."

"All men seek fortune now, Mr. Kennedy, let us not lie about that." Her accent was british mixed with cajun. It was lovely and said she was probably here by way of Africa.

"You got me there, _chere,_ but I'm here to find out about this." He showed her the sketch of the veve done for Baron Samedi. Sheva took it, studying it intensely.

She lifted her gaze to his face, amused, "That's the Baron Samedi. The loa of greed and debauchery. Are you acquainted, Mr. Kennedy?"

He laughed, lightly. "Sometimes, I suppose. But I found that at a murder scene I'm investigatin."

Sheva sat back now, looking more interested, "Really? Are you police?"

He laughed, lightly, "No. Hah. No. For one whole day, yeah, I was. Not anymore."

"...not cut out for the thin blue line?"

He grinned at her, enjoying her teasing. He wasn't an idiot either, he got the subtle flirting behind it. "Apparently not. I'm a PI, now. I'm working the scene for the family of a victim. I'm hoping I can go places that being a cop would stop me. I just need the right...spirit guide it seems."

She laughed, rolling the stone in her pretty palm. "Where are you hoping I can guide you to, Mr. Kennedy?"

Leon lifted a brow, smirking, "Where else? The truth."

She nodded, lightly, and actually seemed to like that answer. "What can I tell you to help you in your quest?"

He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on her face, "Start with voodoo, and Samedi. Why would someone use him in a death ritual?"

Sheva rolled her shoulders, shrugging a little. "As well as being master of the dead, Baron Samedi is also a giver of life. He can cure any mortal of any disease or wound, if he thinks it is worthwhile. His powers are especially great when it comes to voodoo curses and black magic. Even if somebody has been afflicted by a hex which brings them to the verge of death, they will not die if the Baron refuses to dig their grave. So long as this mighty spirit keeps them out of the ground -they are safe."

Leon considered that, applying it to the nature of the crime scene. "So, if maybe they were sacrificing to him in order to cure themselves?"

"If they are ill, possibly. In addition to that, he also ensures all corpses rot in the ground to stop any soul being brought back. What he demands in return depends on his mood. Sometimes he is content with his followers wearing black, white or purple clothes or using sacred objects; he may simply ask for a small gift of cigars, rum, black coffee, grilled peanuts or bread. But sometimes the Baron requires a voodoo ceremony to help him cross over into this world."

They held eyes as she finished. It was pretty clear what she was saying here.

"You're saying someone would invoke him, offer him a human sacrifice in exchange for their own life, and guarantee he crossed over to climb his offering."

"Yes. If we wanted to infer why one might invoke him, that's a good enough reason, don't you agree?"

He did actually. It meant, possibly, their culprit was trying to keep from dying himself and using young girls to keep himself that way. He was a modern Elizabeth of Bathory, bathing in the blood of his victims for eternal youth.

Leon studied her pretty face, "What if he denied the offering?"

Sheva shivered, holding his gaze, "Then the victim may rise again from their grave. Left unable to cross over, they would become...something else. Something dark and unholy. They would...become undead."

Leon wanted to be sure what she was saying here, "A zombie?"

Sheva looked very serious now. No joking. No flirting. She said, "Yes. A zombie. A forsaken one."

Mumbo Jumbo.

Zombies. Stupid to think such things could exist. Stupid.

And yet the hair on the back of his neck was standing up.

He nodded, jotting down in his notebook as they talked. "I need to know who to contact, Ms. Alomar, about Samedi. About who might...often...invoke him. You know what I'm asking here."

She held his gaze again, "Mr. Kennedy...we practitioners are often a small club of dedicated advisers. To "give one up" to an authority is a direct violation of what we stand for. You're asking me to turn against my own people here. That is not something that is taken lightly in our small community."

He offered her the picture of Marianne Costas - the crime scene one that Ryman had made copies of for him. Horrible. Frightening.

And he watched it drift over her pretty face.

"Help me, Ms. Alomar. So this doesn't happen again. She was young. She was smart. She's dead now. Butchered. And you could be protecting the person who killed her. If we're right here, he didn't kill her for anything other than power and preservation. Help me stop him. Please."

Sheva lifted her pale gaze from the photo. She glanced again at it and back at his face. And finally, she answered, "I can get you names. Give me a few hours."

He nodded. He touched her hand. He held her gaze, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Mr. Kennedy. I'm betraying my faith here. I take that very seriously. I only offer it now because I agree with you. There's no reason for this. Invoking Samedi for something like this is horrendous. It's dark magic. It's blood magic. And I won't be a part of it."

She rose. She gestured with her head.

"I'm going to go make some calls. Please show yourself out."

He offered her a card with his number on it.

"Call anytime, Ms. Alomar. I mean it."

"I will. Good day to you, Mr. Kennedy."

She disappeared behind her beads. Leon stopped by the cage with the snake, he hesitated, and he used his fingernail to scrape one tiny scale from the edge of the cage. The snake eyed him, narrowly.

"Hey...you shed it, buddy. I'm just borrowing it to rule your mistress there out as a suspect. So take it easy."

And he was talking to a snake.

In a house of mumbo jumbo.

Discussing invoking loas in a voodoo ritual meant to raise the dead or offer them up or bring them back as monsters.

Lord.

Just another day in his line of work really, dealing with the weird, the odd, the pointless, the strange, the unusual, the unheard of, and the mythical.

"...the story of my life."

He opened the door and stepped out into the brisk sunshine.

* * *

Claire was having luck herself sipping a cool glass of water while she waited for the prints to reprocess.

Kevin Ryman had set her up at a computer in an empty office at the police station.

She was scanning old microfilm while she waited. It was pulling up anything she could on old murders that might connect, at all, with what was happening. She did a wide search, covering the country first and then narrowing it down to just New Orleans when that attempt came up too broad.

The article that populated first had her clicking and reading it.

And spidey sense started to tingle.

Early one afternoon in late January 1911, a police officer in West Crowley, Louisiana received an urgent phone call. Neighbors feared something terrible had taken place at 605 Eastern Avenue, and indeed, when Officer Clax arrived at the house, he found the home's three occupants—a man, woman, and small girl—lying in bed with their skulls split open. The bed was drenched in blood, and bloody footprints speckled the floor. The doors were locked, indicating that the killer had come in through a window and murdered the Birkin family while they slept. There was a bucket of blood in one corner, and at the head of the bed, just above the bashed-in bodies, stood a life sized tribute to Baron Samedi. The article refered to it, actually, as "a grim reaper" but it wasn't. It was Samedi. In his pale faced skull like glory. In his top hat and his evil grin.

The veve on the floor was smeared with blood and dust and chalk. But it was his. It was the same veve.

The local newspaper called it "the most brutal murder in the history of this section," but it was just one of similar slayings that would terrify parts of Louisiana and Texas in the early 1900s. Each subsequent article told a similar story. Each time she clicked, her alert rang in her head. She was jotting and printing, gasping and reading.

The crimes would become connected to rumors of a deranged Voodoo priestess and a cult called the "Followers of the Way," which was said to butcher its victims as part of their strange rites. But though suspicion initially focused on several men, the murderer was suspected to be female. Later study of old DNA found that to be true. And she was never caught.

Modern forensics might have identified her and stopped her. But back then, Claire mused, there was no hope of science to help them catch a killer. There was evidence of a cult but it was impossible to pin point more than a few suspected members.

A little more than four weeks later, on February 25, the murderer struck again, killing five members of the Spencer family in Lafayette, Louisiana. By then, the police began to suspect that their crimes were so similar they may have been "the work of the same terrible monster." A month later, in Rockfort Island, Texas, Alfred and Alexia Ashford were murdered in a similar fashion, along with their three children.

The murders continued even as the country began to see the toll of the wide swath. Again, like these, they were wide spread in origin. No one connection could be found.

The newspapers had a field day, and seized on the idea that the murders were connected to a Voodoo ritual. One of the first to take that angle, the Raccoon City Gazette, published a story on the Spencer Mansion murders titled "Outbreak! Voodoo Doctor strikes again!" The story suggested the crimes were connected to human sacrifice that took place as part of a Voodoo ritual, and emphasized the idea of the number five as somehow having ritualistic relevance. "Two months ago, six members of the Wesker family perished at the hands of the fanatics but left alive an infant that had been born only the day before the tragedy and in all probability had not been taken into consideration when the plans for the human sacrifice were consummated," the reporter for the paper wrote. "Now comes the Spencer tragedy with its five victims, thus completing a series of sacrifices of five separate families, each evidently intended to have involved five victims."

What did it all have to do with what was happening now?

Sacrifice. Human sacrifice in fives to Baron Samedi. Why?

And how did a crime from a hundred years ago play into what was happening now?

What was the likelyhood any of it was related? Was it possible it was simply strange coincidence?

There was one surviving infant of the murders. Claire clicked on the link for the family that had died: Wesker.

The youngest child was Albert. The only surviving Wesker.

He was laid to rest in the **Lafayette Cemetery No.1.**

She breathed, fast and low, "The same as the grave dust. The same as the fucking dust. Wesker...WESKER...what do you have to do with it all?"

The machine behind her beeped, revealing the fingerprint analysis was complete. Claire turned, looking at the read out. A match. A big one. A sure one.

The bone fragments were all the same victim. A "suicide" named Steve Burnside. She rolled her chair to pick up the print out. It was Burnside's obituary and profile.

Handsome kid, young, and with shaggy hair and dopey smile.

She studied him for a long moment, "What do you have to do with Wesker, Steve Burnside? And what does all of it have to do with Marianne Costas, Ann Blanchard, and Christa Walsh?"

There were no answers.

But she was betting she'd find some in the cemetery with Leon Kennedy.

* * *

Located in what now was the heart of the Garden District, between Washington, Sixth, Prytania, and Coliseum streets, **Lafayette Cemetery No. 1** was the oldest of the seven municipal, city-operated cemeteries in New Orleans. It was a non-segregated, non-denominational cemetery. There were immigrants from over 25 different countries and natives of 26 states as identified on the closure tablets.

Since the water table for New Orleans put it below sea level, the dead were never buried. They were left in mausoleums that ranged from poor and plebeian to extravagant and rich. Vaults lined the narrow walks, offering the viewer the chance to speculate on who was entombed within. Few plaques were present, preventing you from knowing the family that had seen the end of a loved one.

Weird symbols were written on some of the walls of the tomb, some kind of language that Claire couldn't even begin to guess at. It was messages, surely, but to whom? Over what?

Impossible to know.

Technically, the cemetery had business hours, but a flash of a badge and a little smile found her walking amongst the tombs at just beyond dusk.

She was looking for a specific name. She had a map given to her by the person at the desk but it was little help. It only pinpointed a generalized area. It didn't offer much help beyond that.

The biggest tomb in the graveyard drew her eye. The name atop it was emblazoned in a heavy stone scrawl: WONG.

The Wong family was prominent in New Orleans. It owned half the city in terms of elite power and politics. It had fingers in pies that Claire couldn't even begin to guess at.

She studied the enormous mourning angel that graced the tomb. The plants surrounding it were fresh and lovely. The ivy that climbed the stone was pristine and pretty. The angel knelt in pious prayer, offering its lovely wings and folded hands in tribute to the blessed lord it served.

Claire considered it, sighing. A lot of money went into honoring the dead that rested within that tomb.

Her gaze shifted and glanced over the tomb beside it...and stopped.

Wong...WESKER.

Beside it, in a smaller and simpler stone tribute. WESKER.

Claire shifted toward it, excited and anxious. The door was sealed shut. There was no getting inside but the tomb looked disturbed. Cracked stone, shifting base, signs of infiltration and derelict neglect were present and raised her hackles.

She poked at the lettering on the door, considering it.

How many were laid to rest in there with the dead Albert Wesker? How many Weskers were there?

And where was Leon Kennedy while she was poking around in a creepy ass cemetery in the dark?

She aimed her small pen light between the crack in the door, trying to see inside. The light flickered over the spiderwebs and dust inside. It showed shadows and...something skittered. She aimed her light at it and -

"Whatcha doin there Lara Croft? Tomb raiding?"

Claire squeaked and dropped her light. She leaped a foot in the air and spun around, a hand pressed to her bosom in surprise.

There was the grinning face of the supernatural Indiana Jones, watching her with a twinkle in his gorgeous eyes.

"See anything good in there?"

Claire gave him a narrow look. "You won't believe what I found out."

"Yeah? Me either."

They talked, sharing intel, engaging each other in a quick and friendly way. Admittedly, she liked him. It was hard NOT to like him. He was charming. He was clearly intelligent. He was easy on the eyes.

He knew what he was doing.

And being in the private sector afforded him the ability to dig into things that might red flag for her if she tried.

It was a pretty good partnership they had started here.

If she could just stop picturing his chest with water beaded on it.

Finally, Leon queried, "You think there's something that'll help us in that tomb? Over a hundred year old corpse?"

"...why not? You said you think these people might be trying to raise zombies or something."

"...true. It all sounds fucking dumb doesn't it?"

"A little." She laughed. She shook her head. "It would help to know what kind of names might be on this list you're expecting."

"Yeah...I'd be curious to see if Wesker is on there."

Claire nodded, poking her light back into the crack to see if she could see anything in the tomb. "Me too. Any chance there's Wesker's surviving in the area?"

"Not to my knowledge. But I'm not exactly an authority."

"Who might be?"

They both turned. They both considered the elaborate tomb that waited beside the one they were hoping to raid. They glanced at it, and then at each other.

Leon lifted a brow. Claire poked a finger into her glasses to push them up her nose.

They both smirked.

The answer there was pretty simple. Who knew everyone and anyone in New Orleans? Who had their fingers in all the pies and knew all the names worth knowing?

Who could probably tell them about "Wesker" and what, if any, significance the name had?

The name beside the tomb. The name above the pious angel.

WONG.


	6. Day Two: Chapter Five

**Day** **Two:**

 **Chapter Five:**

* * *

 _"The skull and bones and cross, good sir- Were nothing but a tease_ _-_

 _The evil waited nearer still - infecting like disease-"_

* * *

 **The Baker Plantation -**

* * *

Quint Cetcham(*1*) was sitting in his living room with a laptop, a latte, and a little notebook.

Quint, on a good day, wasn't a handsome guy. He was short and had a hooking jaw that was often referred to as "witchy". His blue eyes were hidden behind big glasses with thick lenses. Sadly for Quint, he wasn't a candidate for Lasik surgery so there was no hope of every saying goodbye to the glasses. His bald had was all natural, since he suffered from alopecia and had pretty much lost most of his body hair by the time was he was in his twenties.

His birdlike nose was currently nostril deep in whatever research he was finding on the laptop. He glanced up as Leon eased into the kitchen to hunt up coffee.

Quint, in his nasally drawl, informed him, "French roast, you're welcome."

With a grunt of ascent to show his appreciation, Leon poured himself a cup. He moved to the porch and left the door open to light a smoke.

From the couch, Quint called, "Good news and bad news, boss. Which you want first?"

Leon shrugged a shoulder non-nonchalantly. "Dealers choice."

"I got an address on Wong for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Last living family member is a woman named Ada. No kids. No husband. No information anywhere that isn't flattering. She's a socialite, runs the companies and holdings left behind by the dead namesake, seems to prefer to wear red and has her picture in about eighty five different papers for different charities and community work."

Leon lifted a brow at him, leaning on the railing. Quint grinned a little, "Exactly. Squeaky clean usually means..."

He trailed off and Leon offered the rest of the statement, "Dirty as fuck."

"Exactly." Quint shrugged himself now and kept on typing, "The address is ritzy fartsy, upscale Garden District...you'll never guess where?"

Leon waited, brow still arched as he inhaled, exhaled, and sipped the bitterly wonderful brew in his mug. "Enlighten me."

"Smack dab in the middle of three important places: the cemetery, the home of your very dead "suicide", and the last known residence of the Wesker family."

Leon shook his head, laughing derisively, "Coincidence?"

"I think not." Quint laughed and clicked on the keyboard again, "Now the bad news."

"Hit me."

"You'll never get in to see this woman. Ever. I can't find a single person around who can put us in touch. And you need an audience with the queen of the social butterflies buddy, no lie there. You can't just go up and knock. Her staff will laugh you all the way back down the drive in your cheap t-shirt and jeans."

Quint tossed a folder on the table. There was a pretty monarch butterfly atop it - clearly the relevant image for the woman who was the social "butterfly" of the south. She didn't look like any fashionista, turned socialite diva that Leon had ever seen though. She was statuesque, sure, and she was gorgeous - no getting around that - but there was a coldness on her that looked more than skin deep. It was the eyes, Leon mused, they were empty, shrewd, and calculating. She wasn't worried about hair and makeup, this one, she was just using that as a cover. He'd stake his fucking left nut on that.

He'd spent a good amount of his life reading women - he was, by no means, an expert - but he wasn't an idiot either. He could see what lay beneath the guise of a pretty face. It was how he knew Redfield was deeper than she let on. It was how he knew Sheva Alomar was hiding something. And it was how he knew Ada Wong had secrets she would die to protect.

Sadly for everyone involved, he was going to need to get under all these woman's guises to get the answers they needed. Some of it could be done with a little flirting, some of it done with a little digging, and, if necessary, some of it done with a little blackmail. He wasn't above doing all three.

Quint mused, lips pursed, "Not even your legendary charm is going to get you into this one's "inner sanctum", my man. Good luck."

Leon pursed his lips, considering. The grittiness of the nightmare plagued rest was fleeting. It was par for the course anyway with him. He'd dealt with insomnia and demons his whole life - nothing a little coffee, tobacco, and fresh air rushing by on his bike wouldn't cure. He could practically feel the catharsis of a open road in his dick as he stood there, waiting for the spiritual healing that came with all that horsepower roaring beneath him.

"I have my ways, my friend, don't you worry."

Quint studied him, hating him on principle in a totally harmless way. It wasn't enough the guy looked like a GQ model. He was also graced with enough smarts to be good at what he did. He was pretty freaking decent at playing the guitar. He didn't entirely suck at dancing. All in all, it was an unfair advantage to the rest of the modern world to be Leon Kennedy.

But you couldn't work with him and not take it with a grain of salt. He was, also, hilarious and a great guy to work for. He paid on time, he was laid back about how you gathered your intel, he didn't ride your ass to show up at 9 a.m. on the nose. And he often got a drink with you at the end of the day. More than once, he'd even been the wingman for Quint to get laid.

All in all, a great guy to know.

But even Kennedy had his limits. Without some subterfuge and wily pulling of puppet strings, he was going to have a hard time getting in to see Wong. She had a reputation for only popping up when she wanted and otherwise being impossible to pin down.

Leon picked up the newspaper lying on the table. He studied the face of Marianne Costas staring back at him. He didn't need to see it in black and white to remember it. It was burned into his brain.

He dreamed of her again the night before. He'd dream of her every night until he unraveled the web of mystery that waited around her.

It was how he worked.

All his life, he'd been drawn to it: the strange and unusual. He'd come across the journals of some ancient old guy related to him in his parent's attic after his father had died. Some dude around the time of the great witch hunt that had sprung up after the Werewolf Witness Trials in Mississippi in the late 1800s. The first of the "hunters" they'd called in to weed out the truth or the lies of it.

They were mostly written in old shorthanded an gaelic, so it was hard to decipher, but what Leon gathered was that his ancestor suffered from the same dreams. The same. Prophetic, rich, detailed - and often true.

A fascinating thing.

And apparently it skipped generations because he didn't read about it again until he'd stumbled upon his mother's diary from when she was a little girl. She'd dreamed, not of unicorns and princesses, but of shadows and screams. She'd seen doctors at first, when she dared speak of it, and finally - after a week in the nut hut, the fear of people despising her like Joan of Ark had driven her to silence, she'd simply kept her own journals to document her dreams.

She dreamed of witches and warlocks and murder. She saw demons and ghosts and darkness. She tried to stop the dreams by cutting. She found bleeding her legs at night before bed would give the dark an "outlet" that left her with a little peace. She'd married his father and go on to be ok.

There were years where the journals were missing.

And finally?

The last one after he'd been born: a long rambling madness of hate and worry and loss. I'm drowning, dying, dreaming, she'd write, I'm losing hope. I'm lost. I'm forsaken.

She'd slit her wrists in the bathtub on his fourth birthday.

Her demons had finally devoured her.

His father had shut down. He'd made it another three years after she died before drinking himself to death in her memory. A sad story, filled with little to no happiness, but it was ok. He'd been so small. He had only stories of them to remember. He had smells and thoughts of them both, but little more than that.

His grandmother had raised him after that. A quiet woman with a big laugh and alot of smiles.

He'd never been unhappy with her. She'd spoiled him rotten, figured out real quick the ladies adored him, and tried ever since to instill some kind of chivalry into him.

Maybe there was a gaping hole in him for the parents he'd never really known, but she'd filled that hole pretty well most of his life.

As it stood, he was the man he was because of his grandmother. He didn't regret a moment of time spent with her.

But the nightmares had started so young. Too young. He was barely old enough to understand them.

She'd nurtured, she'd listened, she'd loved him - she'd understood because her daughter had had them all her life. It was easier when his grandmother would hold him after one.

Of course, she still would, he knew, if he called her. But he was a grown up now, allegedly, and didn't need her anymore.

Allegedly.

When he'd been young, he'd wanted to go to a concert. His grandmother had flat out told him no. No way. No way, no how. Well, as a young teenage boy tended to do, he'd decided to defy her. So he'd stolen her car while she was sleeping and driven out of town to the concert.

He didn't have any money to get in, so he knew he'd need a good plan to guarantee he'd see the band.

Ten seconds after parking the car, the plan had formed: who usually got into concerts free of charge?

COPS.

So, he'd stolen a badge with a little slight of hand from a pretty cop that he flirted with by the concession stand, hooked it to his belt like some hot shit detective, and snuck his way free and clear into the concert.

A great night.

Until he'd gotten home and found his grandmother wide awake and waiting. Lesson learned, after a month of being reduced to dishes, trash duty, and no dating, no social life, and no mercy. LESSON LEARNED. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

He picked up the phone and dialed Redfield. One thing was true - he might not need his grandmother quite like he used to (at least that was his story and he was sticking to it), but he needed to get in to see Ada Wong.

And nothing worked better, than a little trickery.

As long as his grandmother never found out, of course.

* * *

 **Outside the Precinct - Central N.O.P.D.**

* * *

Claire Redfield was waiting outside of the precinct when he roared up on his bike. She pursed her lips, watching him, "This is illegal, Mr. Kennedy."

He tilted his head, waiting. "What? The no helmet thing again?"

"Not just that...this." She sighed and offered him the badge, "Your friend will probably notice it missing soon enough. Why did I steal it?"

Leon winked at her, "Long story. Plausible deniability says you're better off not knowing. I'll get it back in one piece, and probably with alot of information we need. You need a lift somewhere?"

She considered him. He was wearing a white and green raglan style t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up his toned forearms. On the front, it proudly proclaimed - Whatever Tickles your Pickle with a picture of a grinning pickle. The jeans and brown boots were worn and faded. The hair was attractively windblown.

There was a days worth of whiskers on his cheeks that made him look rakish and charming.

Claire mused, "If you're going to pretend to be a cop, you may want to change your look a bit. Just an FYI."

He grinned, winking at her again, "Don't you worry, _chere._ I know what I'm doing. You want that lift?"

She shook her head, "I'm all set, thanks. I'm going to hit up the Voodoo Temple I found in the paper this morning. Might have something useful for us on Samedi or the rituals used."

"Good idea. Why don't you meet me back at the Wesker tomb around lunch time? I might have a way in."

She lifted her brows, curious now. "You planning to illegally enter a closed mauseluem?"

Leon chuckled, lightly, "Not illegal if you're with the FBI, right?"

"...I don't have a warrant."

Leon shrugged, "So? You smelled weed or something from inside. Probable cause or something?"

"...do you EVER do anything that isn't against the law in one way or another?" Claire studied him to see if he was serious.

"Hey hey hey...I tread carefully on the line, darlin, but it's all for the greater good."

Claire rolled her eyes, "I don't know about that, Mr. Kennedy. But I think you might be dragging me with you into questionable ethics territory here."

"Bah. No fun playing by the rules, Claire Redfield. Live a little. Being bad can feel pretty good if it gets us what we need." He gunned the engine on the bike, "Last chance for a ride."

"I'm good. I'll stick to the safe interior of my very boring sedan."

"Pfft. You're a stick in the mud, kid. But we'll fix that, I promise." He winked and took off, roaring away toward the end of the square.

Claire watched him go, and couldn't stop the smile.

She climbed into her boring sedan and turned over the engine. It wasn't nearly as exciting as cruising around on a Harley, sure, but it got the job done. She looked as professional as she could get while he looked...like somebody's idea of a modern day James Dean.

She tilted the mirror to examine her carefully controlled bun and glasses, her high neck blouse in baby blue and the black pencil skirt and suit jacket she wore. She looked like an agent. She looked like a professional. She didn't think Kennedy knew how to look like one.

She eased the car forward and caught the streetlight to turn toward the temple (*2*).

It was a small little cottage on Creole Street. The little cottage was adorable from the outside, welcoming the viewer the delights of the beyond within.

The Voodoo Spiritual Temple was established in the late 1800s by the Priestess Cemani Ayum. It was the only "formally" established Spiritual Temple with a focus on traditional West African spiritual and herbal healing practices currently existing in New Orleans.

Claire eased open the big wood door and helped herself to the inner sanctum. She was meeting with Priest Loup Blanc, known to his followers as the Silver Scorpion with a little tongue in cheek since scorpions, traditionally, were living beings not very well accepted in society because they caused fear and were related to deadly poison. That he was the great, and well known, healer of his people was not without some sense of irony. So, the "Silver" tag of a saint was applied to the scorpion nickname and a great joke was spread amongst the community. He was the scorpion who healed with his "poison" and was, in many ways, the shaman and shepherd of those who sought his skills.

Silver Scorpion was at the altar that waited in the heavily decorated gathering area within the cottage. A sign hung above the heavy wood door that was painted with tribal symbols and dangled bags of gris-gris and stones on fraying, hand woven hemp.

The sign proclaimed all the things you could expect to find from the Priest who's attention you sought:

 **Events and Seminars**

 **Oil Blends**

 **Handcrafted Voodoo Dolls**

 **Mojo Bags**

 **Wedding Blessings**

 **Baby Blessings**

 **Funeral Masses**

 **Special Blessings**

 **Private Rituals**

 **Consultations**

 **Prayer requests**

Claire considered her needs in the scope of that. Would hunting a killer fall under special blessings? Consultations? Prayer requests?

All three maybe.

The handsome face of the man in question turned. He was coffee with three creams and eyes the same shade as whiskey in sunlight. A lovely blend of green and gray and gold with enough red to make you curious what combination of beautiful genes it took to bring about such a rich kaleidoscope of color.

He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, surprising her. Because what? She'd expected some kind of ceremonial robe or something?

Apparently, she was falling in with the stereotypes after all.

There was a tint of strawberry blond to his long hair that settled in a pretty ponytail down his back as he came toward her. She offered a hand and he shook it. The _elekes_ , or the string of beads he wore around his neck were dark and red and lovely, offering her an idea of what he used in his rituals. She was sure there was significance to the beads and their stone but she didn't know enough to guess.

He guided her to sit as they talked, exchanging pleasantries and answering questions. He was charming, wise, and open. He didn't hide anything from her and wasn't in the place to begin to play games. If she asked about certain icons on the walls, or certain items on the altar, he happily engaged her in conversation regarding their purpose.

He was happy to explain about New Orleans voodoo and the practice of it in modern American.

"Popular culture has strongly associated Vodou with devil worship, torture, cannibalism, and malevolent magical workings. This is largely the product of Hollywood coupled with historical misrepresentations and misunderstandings of the faith."

He offered her a voodoo doll - pretty with a straw smile and sleepy eyes - "But you see, Agent Redfield -"

"Claire..please."

"Claire," He smiled, softly, "The seeds of these misconceptions began much earlier than anything seen in the movies. A well-known incident in 1791 at _Bois Caiman_ marked a crucial time in Haitian slave uprisings. The exact details and intent are a matter of historical debate. It's believed that witnesses saw a Vodou ceremony and thought the participants were making some sort of pact with the Devil to thwart their captors. Some people - even as recent as 2010 after the devastating earthquake there - have claimed that this pact has perpetually cursed the Haitian people. In the Vodou-influenced areas such as Haiti, slavery was extremely violent and brutal; the revolts of the slaves were equally as violent. All of this led white settlers to associate the religion with violence and also helped fuel many unfounded rumors about Vodouisants."

Claire touched the little straw doll's mouth. Something vibrated in her finger tip...or maybe she was just look way too hard into things. "So, voodoo is a scape goat for simply evil minds?"

"In a way, isn't all religion? We use it as a reason to war. A reason to slay. A reason to spread our seed. If we seek to back our deplorable nature with faith, it grants us a way to absolve ourselves of the sin of our own actions. Using voodoo as the devil's work is another way of blaming something beyond our understanding."

Claire offered him the doll and he took it. "What if someone was practicing legitimate voodoo, not for acclaim, but for the purpose of personal glory or gain? Would you be able to tell, just by looking at a ritual scene or site?"

He considered this and finally nodded, smiling. "I believe so. You have an idea of which lesser being they're invoking?"

"Samedi." She studied his face and saw him nod. He shook his head, sighing.

"Samedi is a popular one in this town. For various reasons. Vodou is a monotheistic religion. Followers of Vodou - known as Vodouisants - believe in a single, supreme godhead that can be equated with the Catholic God. This deity is known as Bondye, "the good god."

"...I had no idea." She eased down to watch him now, setting aside her notebook where she'd been jotting information.

Scorpion shook his head, sighing, "Most modern americans don't. Why would they? Vodouisants also accept the existence of lesser beings, which they call loa or lwa. These are more intimately involved in day-to-day life than Bondye, who is a remote figure. The loa are divided into three families: Rada, Petro, and Ghede. The relationship between humans and loa is a reciprocal one. Believers provide food and other items that appeal to the loa in exchange for their assistance. The loa are frequently invited to possess a believer during ritual so the community can directly interact with them. Vilokan is the home of the loa as well as the deceased. It is commonly described as a submerged and forested island."

Claire nodded, taking it all in, "Samedi...he's Ghede?"

"Yes. Yes he is." Scorpion shifted and withdrew a leather volume from the altar. He leafed through it and offered her the pages he'd found with symbols and Samedi's diagram, "It's improtant to note, Claire, that there is no standardized dogma within Vodou. Two temples within the same city might teach different mythologies and appeal to the loa in different ways. So what I can tell you of Samedi may not be what is being invoked with your suspect."

Claire touched his wrist, watching his face eagerly, "I understand that. But anything, anything at all, that can start me looking in the direction is what I'm here for."

Scorpion offered her the volume and she leafed through it as he spoke, "In some ways, Baron Samedi seems to be a walking contradiction. He rules over sex and death, he loves a party but also enjoys his solitude, he has a wonderful sense of humor -the dirtier the better- but yet is reverent towards the dead, especially as they cross over to the other side. When the Baron shows up, you know something big is going down. He is extremely honest. Don't ask him a question if you don't want to know the answer. One of the most important ideas that Baron teaches us is that life is too short to be unhappy."

Claire glanced up at his face, running her finger over the sign of his veve. "Would he be involved in the murder of children?"

Scorpion shook his head now, adament. "Not unless grossly perverted from his course. And even then, I doubt he would answer invocation where children are harmed. He loves children and they will become very curious when he is around. "

Claire studied his face now, "What about raising the dead, Father? Would he? Could he?"

Soothing her, he patted her arm, "Baron Samedi is Lord of the Dead. We cannot connect with those who have gone before us without him. He doesn't just end life either. He can end a situation, an argument, a relationship, etc. Baron is also there at the end of a job well done. When you take that deep breath after finishing a big project, you are feeling him. He helps the newly dead cross over and find peace. In this aspect, we should not fear him but appreciate him for the care and concern he will show us all in the end. If someone is so bad off that are lingering on the border, the Baron will make the ultimate decision whether they live or die."

Claire shook her head, feeling a cold shiver in her guts, "Somebody is invoking him to kill, Father. They are using him to shepherd the dead to their purpose. Is it possible? Would he, for the right offering, allow the dead to serve the will of someone who called him?"

He didn't like the answer. She saw that all over his handsome face. He was tall and thin and attractive, and angry. Because he didn't like someone perverting his faith either for such things. But he said, "They could, as the Baron loves sex. Loves it. Groups and orgies and offerings of sex and death combined, he would...couple with such things. He would adore it. Normally the question I get asked most often is how can the Baron be Lord over sex and death? Aren't they complete opposites? So, I prayed to him one day and the answer I got was "Good sex is the closest to death the living can get without crossing over." If you think about it, "true" sex is about joining souls in a blissful union. Death is about crossing back over to join with the Great Spirit. As spiritual beings, two of the times we are most open and vulnerable is the moment of orgasm and the moment we die."

Claire studied his face and something like horror eased in her guts, "Would he allow someone to resurrect the dead for sex?"

Scorpion considered her, he didn't look happy, he looked angry again, "Because of his lordship over sex and death, some might be think that the Baron is involved with necrophilia but this absolutely not true. Any form of disrespect towards the dead would be absolutely taboo."

"...well, that's something."

But he didn't look happy. She eyed him, waiting, "What is it? What?"

"After they were resurrected. After his offering claimed...who could say what they would do with those they'd brought back?"

Lord.

That was something she didn't want to think of.

Were these girls being killed, being raised again, being raped...and being used to summon something sinister and evil? Were they being raised by a necromancer and used to create something else?

She had no answers.

Just more questions.

She considered the priest and finally queried, "Father...if I brought you to a crime scene, as an expert witness, could you give us an idea of what might be lingering there?"

He smiled, gently, but there was the rage of a pious man in his pretty eyes, "Claire, I would be honored to help you stop this monster. In anyway I can."

"Would it be possible to perform some kind of exorcism on whatever might have risen?"

A good question, mused the Priest, and proved she was both smart and capable. He was enjoying her company in more ways than one. She was beautiful, intelligent, and clearly educated. She was also determined and true. These were qualities he favored and fostered in his flock. He respected truth, in all its forms, and was looking forward to both spending more time with her and helping her slay whatever demons were currently perverting his faith for their own nefarious purposes.

"I believe anything is possible, Claire, with the right amount of faith."

* * *

 **Wong Residence - The Garden District -**

* * *

The knock on the door was loud. It echoed. The whole thing was a scene out of Gone with the Wind. He was standing at the door to Tara, waiting for Scarlet O'Hara to walk down the stairs and declare she'd never go hungry again.

It was answered by a sallow faced man with a long chin. The second Leon saw him, he thought, "Nosferatu!" From the pointy ears to the elongated mandible, the old guy looked like a 1930s silent movie vampire.

He eyed Leon with no less than a far amount of disdain. Apparently, a black leather riding jacket with a raglan t-shirt beneath wasn't what he expected to see when one flashed a badge, "I'm Detective Ryman, I'm here to see Ms. Wong."

The old guy gave him a long look, sighed, and intoned, "Ms. Wong is at prayer. But you may wait for her in the study."

And Leon Kennedy was granted access, with a little help of a possibly illegal white lie, into the inner sanctum of Madam Butterfly herself.

As he passed through, he whispered, "Will you walk into my parlour? Said the spider to the fly. Oh no no...said the little fly...to ask me is in vain, for who goes up your winding stair can never come down again..." (*3*)

And the door closed quietly at his back.

* * *

 **Post note:** *1* Quint can be found under the call sign JACKASS in Revelations. You can google him. He's often times my go to guy in the games for a pretty fantastic "Q" type for Leon.

*2* The Voodoo Spirtual Temple is a real place. I just stole the idea of it here for the sake of the story. No person mentioned bares any relations to the real owners or operators.

*3* The Spider and the Fly is a poem by Mary Howitt (1799–1888), published in 1828. The first line of the poem is "'Will you walk into my parlour?' said the Spider to the Fly." The story tells of a cunning Spider who ensnares a naïve Fly through the use of seduction and flattery. The poem is a cautionary tale against those who use flattery and charm to disguise their true evil intentions.


End file.
